


A Stranger's Pain

by Esteliel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: LOTRO, MMO, Multi, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:18:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>At first, when this stranger arrived together with her husband, an enigma who did not talk, she would wonder fearfully sometimes if some of the bruises that still bloomed in pale, sickly yellow on her husband's limbs had been left by those strong arms. But looking at him now, as lost as her husband in a way she did not quite understand, she thought that whatever had happened had happened </i>to<i> them, not between them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stranger's Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AeonDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/gifts).



> Vereyar is not mine. I would apologize for my continuing abuse of him, but he is too much fun too play with. Clearly this is not my fault.  
> (Furthermore, all canon versions of these characters would sooner marry an orc than actually do what is happening here. Still, that never keeps me from having fun imagining it.)

She took a deep breath. She could not help it - she still felt wary when she thought about the silent stranger who had returned at her husband's side. He did not speak, he did not leave his room, and her husband, who had never been anything but attentive and gentle with her, would now spend half the day brooding over whatever it was that had come to pass, hiding his pain from her behind a wall of courtesies.

She loved him. She loved him for his inherent nobleness, his ideas and values and morals - she loved him for the fact that even though he judged everyone by his high ideals, he judged himself by even higher standards, always striving to be the best man he could be. And he was a good man. She could not have married a better man. He did not deserve the shame his father left him with, but she loved him quite helplessly for the determination with which he tried to set this right. 

He deserved better than the shame that clung to his name. And he deserved better than this quiet despair that clung to him whenever he returned from the chambers of their guest, which made her ache with the helpless need to do something, anything, to help him.

She opened the door to the stranger's rooms slowly when she heard sounds inside. Maybe one of the servants, bringing food... She hesitated for a moment, for it was very late and she wore but a thin shift with a cloak of heavy, embroidered silk wrapped around her body for modesty. This was hardly suitable attire to visit the chambers of a male guest in the middle of the night - but what else could she do when she could sense her husband's mounting pain and despair, and saw no way to help him?

He had brought his friend home with him, after all, and this home was her domain. It fell to her to see to the well-being of their guests. If her husband would not allow her to help him, maybe talking to his friend would show her a way, for it could not continue like this. Her husband bore too many burdens already. She could not bear it to see him carry this stranger's pain as well.

When she boldly entered, she found the stranger's bed empty. But there was a voice she recognized which came through a half-open door - her husband's voice, clipped with frustration, and the splash of water. 

"Will you not - Vereyar, this is not... This does not change anything!" her husband said in a sudden outburst. "Just... just refusing life like this! Will you not remember what you told me? This is not - this is not _you_!" There was another splash, and as she slowly walked through the door towards the sound of the voice, she saw her husband throw a towel into the steaming bathtub in frustration.

For a moment she stopped, swallowing, as her eyes came to rest on her husband's guest who was sitting in the water, eyes closed and looking as lost and weary as her husband had, that night they received the news of his father's and brother's death. And yet, this stranger looked nothing like her husband. Her mouth was suddenly dry as her eyes lingered on him. Her husband was handsome, lithe and toned, his body hard with muscle when she curled against him at night. Yet this stranger - she had never before seen a man who exuded strength in the way this man did. His skin gleamed, wet with water, each hard muscle shown in perfect relief beneath the pale skin, like a marble statue of a Vala come to sudden, unexpected life in her house. There were old bruises and scars, so that her heart ached with sudden worry as she remembered similar bruises on her husband's body, and the sudden, hurtful silences when she would touch one and he would withdraw. 

What had happened to them? What could possibly happen to a man such as this? What enemy could have won against such a stunning display of strength?

At first, when this stranger arrived together with her husband, an enigma who did not talk, she would wonder fearfully sometimes if some of the bruises that still bloomed in pale, sickly yellow on her husband's limbs had been left by those strong arms. But looking at him now, as lost as her husband in a way she did not quite understand, she thought that whatever had happened had happened _to_ them, not between them.

He turned when she stepped closer, and everything she might have said died in her throat at the mix of frustration and devastation on her husband's face.

She had never seen him so weary before, as if this man's silence had worn him down far beyond what any enemy might have accomplished. She did not know what she could do to help - but she also knew that she could not bear it to see one who deserved better suffer so.

"Your friend is weary, my lord," she said softly, touching his cheek lightly with her fingertips as she walked past him. "As are you. 'Tis not the master of the house who should see to an honored guest's well-being. You are weary too, husband. You should rest, just as our guest should. Let me assist him instead, as is proper."

She thought that there was nothing proper about getting closer to a naked stranger while wearing nothing but a thin shift, but for her husband, for the man she loved, she could pretend to be nothing but a serving maid for a night. And she had heard the giggles of those who had served him the food that had so rarely been touched. Any of those girls would have fought for the delight of assisting the handsome, strong stranger with a bath. And as much as the situation unsettled her, there was still a part of her that felt breathless and shaky at the sight of that well-formed body displayed to her, muscles gleaming in the candle-light.

Her husband reached out for her, but all his fingers closed around was the cloak of embroidered silk. His grasp pulled it from her shoulders, and she shivered, but did not stop. Now this, truly, was not proper - the shift was so thin that the stranger must be able to see all the contours of her body, should he choose to watch, and from the soft sound of a breath drawn in, so must her husband. But the stranger did not even look at her, and if he did - she thought of something her mother had once told her, that men in her husband's employ might admire her grace and beauty, and that as long as there was nothing unsuitable in their attention, that, too, was something the lady of a noble house should know how to use. A warrior might fight just as well to prove himself to a lady than to a lord, after all, her mother had said, and now Gwennael wondered if maybe, this warrior would rouse for her - would talk, at least, or look at her husband, who was good and kind and loyal and deserved more than to be left by yet another person he held in esteem.

Daringly, she took hold of the towel that was floating in the steaming water. There was soap, too, and as she slightly leaned forward to reach for one of the bars that smelled of herbs, one of her long tresses of hair fell forward and brushed against his naked chest.

He shuddered then, his eyes opening with sudden shock. She froze for a moment as he stared at her from pale, grey eyes, all too aware that only a thin, almost translucent layer of fabric parted their naked bodies.

"You should allow me to wash your hair," she said softly, eyes lowered demurely, though she was so close to him now that there was truly no way for her to not look at his naked body. The water did not hide much either, and she felt her face flush. She knew that she should not be here, but at the same time - whatever it was that had happened to them, she loved her husband. He deserved a wife who tried to take at least a few of his burdens from him.

Certainly, it could be forgiven if for one night, her actions were not quite entirely suitable for a married lady...

"'Tis not a task for a lord, and as much as I love my husband, I am certain you will agree that the gentle hands of a woman are much more suited to the task."

She made himself smile at the stranger - Vereyar, she told herself. That was his name. He was her husband's friend, so he would be her friend, too, and not a stranger. "Your hair is tangled, but I promise I will be careful. And maybe you will allow me to serve you some mulled wine afterward? Or mulled cider, if you prefer? I will sing for you until you find rest. You will find that while the Greenwood is not a peaceful realm, we cherish our guests and friends."

She reached out to rest her hand lightly on his shoulder, marveling once more at how large and strong he seemed, compared to her husband. The thought gave her a jolt of guilt, for she had never thought of her husband as lacking in any way, but all the same, she had never seen a man so strong either. 

For a moment, she thought that he would allow her to take care of him. His skin was cold, despite the steaming water he sat in, and she could felt a slight tremble, as if he were not used to a touch - or as if he had to force himself not to flinch back. 

Like a skittish animal, she thought, fear turning into something that was not quite pity, but more the growing awareness that it was pain hidden beneath the stony surface, and not danger.

Then, at last, he did move - so fast, despite the way that he had sat unmoving like a statue since she had entered, that she made a soft sound of surprise, lips parting as she stared at where his hand encircled her wrist with the strength of a steel band. Tears welled up in her eyes unbidden as she met his gaze fearfully. Now she was the one who trembled slightly, though still, she found she did not truly fear him. 

Something had woken in her, compassion maybe, or simple curiosity, for what great evil could have brought a man so strong so low? But there was no reason to fear him, she told herself, for after all, he was her husband's friend. And her husband would never allow another to harm her.

“Vereyar,” her husband's voice said very softly. When she looked up, she saw that he was kneeling next to the bathtub. “You are hurting her. There is no need for this.”

She trembled as she gazed at the strong fingers encircling her own wrist again. Then, almost despite herself, her eyes slid up again to look at that broad, strong chest. She swallowed, feeling light-headed, not quite certain what it was she was feeling. When she managed to tear her eyes away at last, she found that her husband was watching her. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but then she found she did not even know what to say. What could she say?

"You should not hurt her, Vereyar," her husband finally murmured, as if he were trying to calm a child. Slowly, he moved so that he was kneeling behind her, ignoring the steely grip his friend had on her wrist. "She was simply trying to help. If you truly do not care about your life anymore, why would it matter to you whether she washed your hair or not? Certainly you would not insinuate that my wife has any... improper motives? She is a noble lady of the Greenwood, from a good family, and to think so about my wife would be a grave insult. I assure you, Vereyar, she has never been touched by anyone but me."

His arms slid around her then, and she swallowed, leaning back to revel in the fleeting comfort of his arms, despite the strangeness of the situation. The shin shift she wore was damp, the white cambric revealing far more of her body than was proper, so that she flushed with embarrassment when she looked down at where his hands rested against her belly, noting how the damp shift clung to her breasts, her taut nipples visible shadows beneath the fabric.

She felt her husband smile against her neck, and shivered again at the sensation that had been so sorely missed for so long. She did not begrudge this stranger his friendship with her husband... but oh, how long and lonely her nights had been, with no one to share her burdens. A soft sigh escaped her as Eluivor's hands slowly slid upwards, then she blushed a deeper red when his fingertips lightly brushed against her breasts, remembering too late that they were not alone. She thought she felt a small tremble in the fingers that still encircled her wrist - but that was all, and she did not dare to look up and meet Vereyar's eyes, not when her husband's thumb slowly circled an aching nipple.

"If you truly do not care anymore about what happens to you, Vereyar," her husband whispered, dropping on hand to her lap to take hold of a fistful of the shift's fabric, "then there is absolutely no reason for you to care about this. Because this is what I gave up for you. All these cold nights sleeping on rocks, shivering in the rain, with no company but your silence and the horses - I could have had this all along."

He kept hold of the fabric, slowly pulling up the shift to reveal her nude body beneath. She trembled. She had missed him, oh, how she had missed him, and that lonely, vulnerable part of her that had longed for his company wanted to simply surrender to his touch, to revel in the delight of his words, the knowledge that he had missed her as much as she had missed him... Yet at the same time, she could not quite make herself forget that they were not alone, especially when Vereyar's hand was still clenched around her wrist.

Not even in her most improper dreams had she ever imagined her husband to behave in such a way - and yet, now that he did, she found that she was breathless and uncertain and a little afraid and at the same time desiring him so much that she trembled every time his fingers brushed her skin, heat rising in her with an unknown urgency.

"She is all mine, Vereyar," Eluivor murmured against the skin of her shoulder, once he had pulled the shift off almost completely. "The only thing that was ever all mine, truly. The most lovely thing I have ever seen. There is little in this world that scares me. But the thought of losing her - I do not know how I would live without her smiles and her loveliness. You must see it too. Even to a man like you, who has seen so much - is she not desirable? I'd kill for her, Vereyar. I'd become a kin-slayer myself if anyone ever tried to touch her."

She gasped softly, her eyes fluttering close again as his hand slowly trailed down once more, fingertips brushing the soft curls between her legs, then moving deeper, two fingers sliding inside her at once so that she made a soft, breathless sound and arched against him, squirming for more, squirming in embarrassment at the thought that _he_ was watching her too, that he saw her like this with those cold, emotionless eyes...

The thought should have been sobering, but instead, she _needed_ \- needed her husband's touch, that new, strange way he was treating her, which should have been terrifying but only mad her want him more.

"Even you must agree that she is lovely," Eluivor softly said, his voice thick with desire. "I'd kill any man who touched her - but you, Vereyar, I would let you touch her. I would let you see her like this. Only you. Is that not enough? It's all I have to offer. It's the most precious thing I own. The one reason this life is bearable. I'd share it with you, because... because you are a good man, a worthy man." There was despair in his voice now, and a part of her wanted to turn and just hide in his embrace, find a way to somehow heal all those hurts... but he was still _touching_ her, fingers slowly sliding in and out so that she trembled and made soft, needful sounds despite his words... because of his words, imagining that steely grip on her hands as that large, heavy body of his friend pressed her down, her husband watching, touching her as his friend slid inside her...

She whimpered softly as she arched against her husband again, her body shuddering as pleasure rolled through her. When it passed, she slumped against her husband's chest, breathless and shaking and damp with sweat, slightly sickened by the way desire still coursed through her veins like sticky-sweet, poisoned honey, so that she turned to hide in his arms in embarrassment from the thoughts of a stranger's touch on her. She did not even realize that he had let go of her wrist, but at last, there was the sound of water dripping from a raised arm, the slightest sensation of fingertips touching her hair, and she trembled again, fearful and confused and somewhere, deep inside, still helplessly, shamefully excited.


End file.
